


For Want of a Horse

by coaldustcanary



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Getting Together, M/M, Multi, POV Alternating, Relationship Negotiation, Snarky Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:27:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27241912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coaldustcanary/pseuds/coaldustcanary
Summary: When Roach is hurt, Jaskier takes a deep breath and seeks out help against his better judgment.It ends up working out far better than might have been expected.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 3
Kudos: 58
Collections: Fic In A Box





	For Want of a Horse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meilan_Firaga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meilan_Firaga/gifts).



_For Want of a Nail  
  
_ _For want of a nail the shoe was lost._  
_For want of a shoe the horse was lost._  
_For want of a horse the rider was lost._  
_For want of a rider the message was lost._  
_For want of a message the battle was lost._  
_For want of a battle the kingdom was lost._  
_And all for the want of a horseshoe nail._

_-Traditional Proverb_

* * *

Jaskier was not one to linger in barns, given the opportunity. He had, of course, had his share of tumbles in the not-so-euphemistic hay, though often as not the stuff was scratchy and full of vermin, contrary to folk song and fairy tale. A pile of saddle blankets laid over straw had served as a bed in his poorer days a time or two, and he could not abide the foolish poetical notion that such fodder might ever be “sweet-smelling” or soft. No, he’d stick to a bed in these slightly better-funded days, thank you, sealing that straw away from his tender backside in a mattress, and avoiding getting horseshit on his best pair of boots.

Usually he had every opportunity to avoid the dusty, smelly barn except in passing. He could count the ones he’d graced in the past year on one hand. But there was Geralt’s horse to consider, fixing him as she was with a soft brown eye from over the stable door, shifting restlessly and snorting softly with distress, and Jaskier was rapidly running short on options.

“There must be something you can do,” he begged the stablemaster. The sturdy fellow frowned and spat on the hard-packed dirt floor.

“Not more than the boy is, already, Master Bard,” he grunted, pointing his chin at the scrawny stableboy crouching in the stall next to Roach’s forelegs, water spray turning his dirt-covered face all to sticky grime. He had a wooden bucket of icy stream-cold water and was trying to coax the mare to stand in it with limited success. The boy rubbed at her leg soothingly and murmured quietly to her even as she tossed her head. He also intermittently spared a hand from his work to scrub at his face surreptitiously, but he was clearly, under the sweat and splash from the bucket, leaking tears from red-rimmed eyes.

“Damn fool thing to do, leaving the grain unsecured, but she’s a clever beast. Too clever by half. She’s eaten herself sick. There’s not much to do with a horse has foundered but keep the hoof cool and hope the infection passes. Little enough chance of it, though,” the stableman continued, even as the boy sniffled pitifully. “This’ll be a hard lesson for you, boy,” he added, directing his ire toward the stableboy nside the stall with a grunt of annoyance.

“I confess I don’t understand how a greedy meal destroys a horse’s _foot_ of all things,” Jaskier said, waving a hand in Roach’s direction. “That doesn’t make any _sense_. Shouldn’t she, I don’t know, have a belly ache? Are you sure there’s not something lodged in her foot, like, like a, I don’t know, a thorn? A rock? Geralt has picked rocks out of her shoes before, he has a tool for it, even, I’m quite sure of it. Have you looked for rocks?” He felt uncharacteristically out of his depth. A deep education in poetry, song, and history had stood him in good stead everywhere from the highest courts to the meanest tavern common room, but animal husbandry was not his strong suit. The stablemaster fixed him with a chiding look, half-pity and half-exasperation.

“You’ve given me good coin atop that left by the Witcher, and I’m telling you true—it’s the founder. A horse eats too well on good grain or sweet grass, and it gives them a fever in the hoof that turns to rot. Sometimes it’s only a little, and they’ll limp along and recover, given time. Sometimes, usually, it’s bad enough they’re walking right on the bone soon enough and the only kind thing is to put them out of their misery. But there’s no way of knowing, yet. We’ve pulled off her shoes so the hoof wall don’t wear away or the nails do more damage. The cold water will ease her pain and pull the fever heat out of her hoof, but there’s nothing more to do but wait and see. If it comes to it, I’ll make sure she has a peaceful end.”

“A peaceful- No!” Jaskier said firmly, startling Roach into tossing her head and snorting wetly even as the stableboy choked on a sob. He moderated his tone into a firm hiss and fixed the stablemaster with a pointed finger and a fixed gaze. “Do _not_ make any final decisions about the horse without my say-so, do you understand?” The stablemaster drew himself up and crossed his arms over his barrel chest, returning Jaskier’s gaze steadily.

“Your coin spends just as well as anyone else’s, and I’ll do what I can for her, but I won’t leave a dumb beast to suffer needlessly. The witcher would have my guts for bootlaces if I did, and rightly, too.” Jaskier had a firm suspicion that he wasn’t wrong. If Roach was truly suffering and would never stand without pain again, she shouldn’t have to live out her limited days in agony. But whatever the stablemaster claimed was _likely_ in terms of her recovery, Jaskier wasn’t ready to give up on her.

Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, infamous Witcher and the storied Butcher of Blaviken frequently claimed a lack of emotions and a complete absence of sentiment; it was bullshit, all of it, of course, in Jaskier’s opinion, but never so obviously and with mundane regularity as the affection and care he lavished on the steady little chestnut mare. He left her behind only in rare circumstances, and the vast swamp Geralt had disappeared into the day before last to hunt a purported lizard-creature that had been disappearing local sheep would have been impossible for Roach to pick through with any speed. Jaskier had meant to go with him, but delays in his journey from Oxenfurt had meant he’d missed Geralt’s departure by a full day, and it was only luck that he was here to peer worriedly at the horse Geralt had almost certainly left behind with the greatest reluctance.

“Look,” Jaskier began, scrubbing at his face with a grimace. “Give me a day, until this time tomorrow. A full day in which you promise not to do anything, hmmm...final until I come back.” The stablemaster’s eyes narrowed and he hesitated a moment before jerking his head in a nod of assent.

“A day you have, though you must understand there’s no poultice or medicine that will fix this. It’s pure luck, really, besides making them comfortable. I don’t know what you think you’ll do with the time.”

“Yeah, me neither, really,” Jaskier muttered, wincing. “It’s a bit of a longshot. I must be mad to even try, but it’s worth a go, I suppose. But she’s going to be _pissed_.”

* * *

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Yennefer said, fixing Jaskier in place with a brief but pointed glare. “I’m a little busy at the moment,” she continued, hissing with frustration as she waved a hand abruptly to snuff a flame under an ominously-bubbling pot and moved to blend the contents swiftly with a heavy stirring rod. The cottage that had appeared ramshackle and dilapidated from the outside was in fact meticulously organized and full of supplies for Yennefer’s potion-brewing and magical trade, interspersed with cracked volumes of history, magical bestiaries, and spell books tucked into every flat surface available. He’d been here with Geralt a few months before, when the witcher had traded a stock of various magical creature parts for well-crafted potion bottles and a few tricks to have up his sleeve beyond his own magics and skill at arms. But it looked like Yennefer had settled into this town further since then, doing a brisk trade in her business between bouts of research.

Jaskier muffled a groan. There were healthy, sensible reasons to distrust and avoid mages, he reasoned. They were, after all, creatures of pure chaos. They attracted trouble when they weren't causing it, and tended to leave destruction and fear in their wake. Moreover, the best of them tended to be prickly and proud, with rare exception. Yennefer _in particular_ was no exception to the rule, and managed to be a storm in (barely) human form on her best days. (Which, keeping company with Geralt as he did, he was not often privy to, since the pair of them would come together the way a hammer struck an anvil, and throw just as many sparks.) In any case, whatever her “best days” were, Jaskier was pretty sure he’d never seen them.

And despite his sincere gratitude for her assistance in saving his life that one time, he was also pretty sure she would gut him as easily as look at him, worst day or best day or anything in between.

“Will you just come and take a look at her and see if there’s anything you can do?” He tried not to wheedle or beg, but he was beginning to feel desperate. Certainly Roach’s well-being was not his responsibility, nor had he anything to do with what had happened to her, but every time he imagined the mare’s huffed breaths and twitching patience as her painful hooves were tended he felt a creeping sort of guilt. He could imagine Geralt’s pinched expression if he were to return to the cozy barn to find her stall empty and the stablemaster’s grimly forthright admission of ending her pain. He would bite off a few low curses, the witcher would, eyes blazing in the dim light, and snarl a warning at the stablemaster to take better care in the future. (If he was a sensible man, said stablemaster would make sure the stableboy was well out of sight during this confrontation, though Geralt would never hurt the boy.) But after, Jaskier knew, Geralt would collect his coin, drink alone and deeply wherever he might find an inn willing to have him, and move on when morning came. It was what he did, after all, as a witcher. No lingering, and certainly not where there was nothing for him. He’d march out of the town on foot as if it bothered him not at all when the sun rose.

Jaskier could picture it in his mind’s eye perfectly. He could write a song about it, something both touching and hopeful, a lament for a noble companion’s faithful service and a witcher forced to move on in a world as if nothing could touch him.

But the damned horse wasn’t nothing. And if Yennefer was half so observant as a mage ought to be, she would know that just as well as he did.

“Please,” he added finally. “I know you have work here, and responsibilities. But for Geralt’s sake, will you come and see?”

Breathing steadily through her nose, Yennefer ignored him and picked up the crucible with a small pair of metal and leather clamps. She carefully poured the viscous liquid she’d been blending from the pot into a clay jar as it steamed and bubbled, not spilling a spare drop, her lips pressed together into a thin line. Fitting a thick stopper into the bottle, she tossed the clamps on her wooden work bench and spun to face him fully, her dark eyes narrowed and her chin lifted as she studied him. Jaskier drew himself up straighter and fought every impulse to back away as she stepped in his direction. Her gown was the gray of old ash and cut unusually loose and flowing compared to her usual manner of elaborate, fitted, and black or near-black dress. Though she always looked completely at ease in whatever she wore, Jaskier had the sense that she was not dressed as she would prefer to be with anyone, let alone him, visiting her home, however temporary. She was, as always, stunningly beautiful, of course. Anger often made her even more gorgeous, somehow. But perhaps that was his own terror of her speaking.

“Tell me. Why do you care so much about the horse?” Yennefer asked finally, her voice low.

“I don’t. I mean, well. Roach is a loyal beast, she doesn’t deserve a bad end…” Jaskier began.

“But it’s not actually about the horse,” Yennefer said, something in her gaze turning thoughtful and sharp. (That, too, was frightening.)

“It’s a little about the horse,” Jaskier hedged. “If you’d seen her big brown eyes just, you know, imploring you the way I have…” Yennefer sighed.

“I’ll get my things. But you will owe me for this. And Geralt, too.” With brisk, practiced motions Yennefer stalked about the workroom, gathering up glass bottles that were carefully slipped into pockets about her person, a few wrapped parcels, and not a few things Jaskier couldn’t begin to identify.

“What is Geralt even off doing, while we rush to tend to his horse’s tender feet, hmm?” Yennefer asked, affecting utter disinterest. (It was poorly performed, in Jaskier’s view. Her actual disinterest looked very different, in the form of her gaze every time she spoke to or about _him_ , generally. The topic of Geralt, on the other hand…)

“Hunting some sort of swamp creatures. The townsfolk weren’t particularly clear on the details so I couldn’t even begin to guess what they might really be, but he’s not expected back for days.” Jaskier hitched a shoulder in a fluid shrug as he leaned against the doorpost deliberately. His own nonchalance on the topic of Geralt of Rivia admittedly needed some work as well.

“Of course he is,” Yennefer sneered, though it was clear that her heart wasn’t in it.

“It is what witchers _do_ , Yennefer,” Jaskier felt compelled to point out with a hint of condescension. She glared over her shoulder at him, her lip curling with annoyance.

“I’m well aware, Jaskier.” Somehow she always made his name sound like a curse. Which, frankly, he was jealous of. He had trained for years in control of his voice both in song and speech, and he was proud of just how much loathing with which he could inflect his voice when discussing Valdo Marx’s shortcomings, but Yennefer had a natural talent for verbal evisceration unmatched in his experience.

“And I suppose you’re trailing in his wake, looking for some scraps of lurid detail to fashion into the next song I will hear in every shit tavern between here and Nilfgaard,” Yennefer continued. Jaskier affected a little gasp of pleasure and a sunny smile.

“Why, Yennefer, what a delightful observation! It is a rare gift, the ability to hear my songs the whole Continent over, in places high and low both. Truly, the appreciation of the masses, perhaps even more than my many and ceaseless invitations to serenade the highest courts in the land, has been a blessing,” he oozed, beaming at her with wide eyes. Subtle it was not, but the ripple of disgruntlement across Yennefer’s perfect features was worth it.

“You might remember that I’m doing you a favor,” she said sourly, buttoning down the flap of her satchel and slinging it over her shoulder, a few locks of hair slipping loose from the knot atop her head. Jaskier made his best attempt at mimicking one of Geralt’s thoughtful “hmmms”--judging by Yennefer’s wrinkled nose he’d missed the mark, alas--and nodded grudgingly...but then tilted his head to the side with a knowing expression, widening his eyes.

“Yes, but not really, are you? It’s not actually about the horse,” he replied, his smile thin-lipped.

Yennefer sighed and grabbed him by the arm, her nails digging sharply into the flesh of his bicep even through the sturdy fabric of his shirt, and shoved him bodily through the portal she’d conjured. Jaskier emerged directly into the ripe-smelling alley behind the livery stable in Bruenen, followed by Yennefer, landing lightly on her feet even as the portal winked out of being behind her.

“Fuck!” Jaskier yelped, tripping over some refuse and barely catching himself before turning a scathing look on the mage. Yennefer swanned by him, unrepentant, avoiding the worst of the filth with hardly a twitch of her skirts. Dusk had fallen in the hours since he’d left, and the bustling town of Bruenen had fallen mostly quiet, with only the soft noises of bedded-down livestock and a scrap of thready lute music (on an old instrument, but well-kept and played by someone not _entirely_ without skill, Jaskier noted idly) from somewhere nearby echoing in the warm night.

“Gods grant me patience,” he muttered, scrambling in her wake. “And the strength not to trip her directly into some of Roach’s steaming, stinking-”

“I can hear you, bard.” At the mouth of the alley, illumination from the nearby inn limned Yennefer’s figure in golden light as she turned and fixed him with a sharp smile.

“And I do hope you actually try it, sometime. See where that gets you.” Jaskier grit his teeth into a smile of his own that more likely approximated a grimace and gestured to the livery stable with a flourish. As Yennefer preceded him inside, Jaskier blinked against the dark, and noticed the movement within the stall where he’d left Roach with not insignificant relief. He hadn’t doubted the stablemaster’s word to give him time, but seeing the mare still on her feet was comforting, in its way. The man himself was nowhere to be seen, causing Jaskier a brief flash of annoyance, indignant that he’d abandon his charge, but if he was as right as he swore, there was nothing for him to do but watch and wait, anyway.

Yennefer paused at the stable door, reaching out to gently scratch at Roach’s jaw even as she peered down into the stall, and lifted an eyebrow. Jaskier stepped up beside her to see that Roach hadn’t been left alone, after all. The stable boy was seated in the straw, his gangly limbs wrapped around the horse’s forelegs and the bucket they were submerged in, well and fully asleep with his forehead propped against the mare.

“I think the lad feels a bit guilty,” he murmured quietly. “He left the grain bin unlatched, and…” Jaskier shrugged and waved vaguely to encompass the stall, the mare, and the grubby boy sleeping between her legs.

“As well he probably should,” Yen grumbled, continuing to scratch lightly beneath Roach’s halter, her eyes slightly unfocused.

“That seems cruel, Yen-”

“Shh.” She held up a finger and cut him off, plunging the dim stables into warm silence once more, save for the soft rasp of Yennefer’s fingernails against Roach’s coat and a muted snort from the mare, their breathing slowing in tandem. The rich fruit and heady floral scent that always clung to Yennefer beneath the residual smoky tang of her magic hung heavily in the humid air. Jaskier blinked slowly, suddenly tired. The straw bedding might be scratchy and smelly, but it was rapidly becoming more appealing as a cozy spot for a nap.

“Wake up,” Yennefer said firmly, but not entirely unkindly. Jaskier started, as did the stableboy, blinking awake and scuttling backwards in the straw bedding with wide eyes. Roach remained utterly still, fully transfixed.

“Hush. Both of you. Up on your feet,” she added quietly to the boy, gesturing fluidly with her free hand while the other continued to slowly scratch the mare’s jaw, the horse’s eyes half-lidded. “You’ve done well to keep her cool, but I need you to take her legs out of the bucket, now. Slowly, gently,” she continued, her voice low and hypnotic. The boy scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his arm and carefully levered the mare’s hooves out of the water bucket, dragging the heavy vessel to the side as the water sloshed. With a grunt of annoyance, Jaskier slipped inside the stall alongside him and picked up the bucket himself, dragging it out of the stall. After, he brushed his hands on his breeches with a grimace.

“Go and fetch a clean bucket and fresh water,” she told the boy. “She’ll be thirsty after I’m done.” As the boy scrambled away, Yennefer slipped into the stall herself, running her hands along the mare’s cheek, neck, and shoulder as she passed. Jaskier watched, frowning, and nearly flinched when she turned and crooked a finger in his direction.

“Come and hold her halter, Jaskier.” He held up his hands, palms out, and Roach’s ears flickered back against her head.

“I’m not good with horses, let alone this one-”

“She’s not so grumpy as she lets on,” Yennefer said, the corner of her mouth drawing up in a small smile as she stroked the mare’s shoulder. “Hand me that lamp, will you?”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Jaskier said as he edged carefully into the stall, passing Yennefer the unlit lamp that had been left outside the stall. “Isn’t that right, girl? Hmm? Is that why he’s so fond of you? You share a similarly dubious outlook on all of us mere mortals?” he crooned to Roach softly, gripping the halter below her jaw and patting her cheek gingerly. Yennefer rolled her eyes and turned back to smoothing her hand down the mare’s leg, making a swift gesture of her fingertips and conjuring a flame to set the lamp alight.

“For a man who talks so little, what he does say in that vein is generally a crock of shit, you know,” Yennefer said with a light, almost conversational lilt to her voice. She pulled her hands away from the horse to tie up her skirt in her belt and crouch smoothly, brushing back escaped tendrils of hair with a distracted gesture. She picked up the mare’s hoof and rested her foreleg over her own knee, peering at the hoof intently in the lamplight, her lips pursed thoughtfully. Jaskier peered at her under Roach’s neck.

“I...what do you mean?”

“Not _all_ the growling and snarling is nonsense, mind you. People are rather awful, and Geralt sees the worst of them.” Something in Yennefer’s tone spoke of disgruntlement, though whether it was directed toward the witcher or the common folk or both, he couldn’t say.

“Not all of them,” Jaskier protested. Yennefer held up a finger, though she didn’t look up from her work..

“That’s what I mean, there. The hint of optimism, amidst the acknowledgement that a lot of people, even most people, are terrible. You have that in common with Geralt.” Jaskier opened his mouth, blinking owlishly in the lamplight.

“Optimism? And...Geralt?”

“Mmm.” Yennefer wrapped her hands carefully around the mare’s hoof, cradling it, and closed her eyes. “I think that’s what he likes about you.”

“That would not have been my first guess. Or anywhere on the list, really,” Jaskier replied, squinting down at the mage who managed to remain an ethereal, stunning beauty even curled around a chestnut mare’s foreleg in a grimy barn. He felt a little warmth in his chest for her, even as Roach snorted and pressed her face against his front, surely leaving snot and sweat on his shirt.

“It’s certainly not the singing,” Yennefer muttered, and the warmth growing in his chest abruptly receded.

“There it is,” Jaskier sighed, smiling ruefully. Roach shook her head, mane waving. After a long few moments of warm silence, Yennefer eased the mare’s hoof to the ground and stood to face him, her brows lifted.

“You probably don’t remember all of it, given the circumstances, bard, but recall that when we met, Geralt had dragged your sorry, cursed person cross-country and without so much as a by-your-leave, interrupted my party to beg my help in saving your life. He was quite insistent, and quite put out as the thought of losing you.” She patted Roach’s shoulder, and slipped around the mare to her other side.

“Does any of this seem, I don’t know, familiar to you? Because it was familiar to me, today,” she added.

“But it’s not the same at all,” Jaskier objected. “She’s a good beast, and she deserves care, but she’s a horse!” Roach promptly shoved her whole head directly into his shoulder, knocking him back a step and into the stall door with a yelp. Yennefer turned a pitying look on him as she bent to work on Roach’s other foreleg.

“It’s not about the horse, Jaskier. Well,” she added, as Roach snorted indignantly, “it’s not _just_ about the horse.”

* * *

Geralt stalked into Bruenen as the sun rose above the horizon, his steps heavy with exhaustion and his pack conspicuously empty of trophies. The “swamp creatures” thieving livestock had turned out to be villagers from nearby Althorn, across the swamp, bearing a considerable grudge for a dam project some of the Bruenen farmers had created, increasing the stagnant water that contributed to the swamp’s encroachment on lower lands. He’d threatened the folk from Althorn into ceasing their thievery, but he’d also taken a hand-axe to some parts of the dam that contributed to the flooding.

Idiots. If they would only talk to their damned neighbors instead of thinking only of themselves, but perhaps that was too much to ask. Luckily, he’d left Roach behind - the filthy swamp would have rotted her hooves right off her legs. Shaking his head, he headed directly for the livery stable where he’d left her, intent on seeing to her welfare, finding Jaskier--if he’d even made it to this sad little town--and getting clear of the place directly. (Hopefully before anyone noticed the...changes he’d engineered to the dam project.)

Upon entering the stables, Geralt found Roach placidly chewing an armful of hay in her stall—and two unexpectedly familiar figures propped up in each of the stall’s far corners, dozing heavily. Roach’s ears pricked up at his approach, and her enthusiastic snort woke both of the sleeping figures with a start.

Jaskier and Yennefer groaned in tandem, their faces scrunched up in discomfort.

“What the hell?” Geralt muttered, eyes wide with surprise. “Yennefer? What are you doing here? And what are either of you doing sleeping in Roach’s stall?”

“Geralt! Ahhh, gods...” Jaskier exclaimed, though it drawled out into a hiss of pain as he surged to his feet. Yennefer found her feet more smoothly, though even her features were tight with discomfort.

“Ahhh, fuck, let me explain.” Jaskier grimaced, pressing a hand into the small of his back and stretching.

“Your horse was sick. Jaskier came and found me to fix her,” Yennefer grumbled, stalking out of the stall with straw tumbling from her skirts as Roach snorted wetly into Geralt’s chest. 

“Yes, all the credit to Yennefer, she fixed Roach’s feet,” Jaskier said.

“Hooves,” she corrected him, smirking.

“Whatever,” Jaskier said, dismissing the correction with a wave of his hand and a muffled yawn.

Geralt remained extremely confused, especially as Yennefer conjured a portal right in the barn, startling some of the other livestock as it flared into being. At the same time, Jaskier heaved Roach’s saddle from beside the stall over her back, loosely belted the girth around her belly, and slung Geralt’s saddlebags over the saddle while shouldering his lute and his own packs with a sleepy sort of haste.

“Let’s go. You can tell me about your hunt over breakfast, Geralt,” Jaskier said, nodding toward the portal.

“You’re cooking,” Yennefer warned.

“The breakfast that I am cooking, yes,” Jaskier confirmed, pulling gently on Roach’s halter. Geralt plucked the lead rein from his hand with a withering look, and Jaskier raised his hands up in surrender before following Yennefer. 

“What?” Geralt grunted.

“We’re going to Yennefer’s. I don’t want to walk, let alone run the whole way again, and I’m sure Roach’s feet are still tender, so I expect we’re all going to go the short way, even if I’ll feel kicked in the gut afterwards. So, let’s be off,” Jaskier said patiently, gesturing toward the portal. Geralt frowned.

“The bounty-” Jaskier snorted, shaking his head and cutting Geralt off with a wave of his hand.

“You don’t have a single trophy, so it was some fools you didn’t bother to kill, and you’re not getting paid by these idiots, I expect. Yes? Yes. The stablemaster has his coin and more besides, thanks to me. There’s nothing preventing you from leaving, and every good reason to go,” Jaskier observed pointedly.

Geralt looked at Yennefer. She arched her eyebrows expectantly and walked through the portal. Jaskier followed her with a grimace, clearly bracing himself.

Geralt exchanged glances with Roach, who flicked an ear in an equine shrug, before following the pair of them through the portal, utterly bemused. On the other side he staggered with a grimace even as Roach snorted and flung her head. She pranced a few steps away and pawed at the dirt, tugging the rein as her eyes rolled.

“Easy, girl,” Geralt murmured, drawing her in slowly by the taut rein.

“There’s gratitude for you,” Yennefer said, eyeing the mare warily as she stepped away out of the reach of churning hooves. Geralt sighed and spared Yennefer a pointed look.

“Thank you,” he said. Yennefer sniffed.

“I meant the-”

“I know what you meant. She’d thank you too, if she could,” Geralt added. Yennefer shrugged, heading for the door to her cottage.

“Thank the bard. He’s the one who convinced me to come.” She snapped her fingers abruptly. “And he owes me-”

“-breakfast, yes, I know.” As the two of them disappeared into the cottage, Geralt hung back, continuing to soothe the restless horse, stroking her neck in long, steady sweeps as she allowed herself to be reined back into reach. Something had certainly changed between the bard and the sorceress since last he’d been in their mutual presence. Over the years since he’d sought out Yennefer’s aid in saving Jaskier’s life, the two of them had barely learned to tolerate each other. He’d long ago accepted their occasional sharp acrimony as the price of maintaining relationships with them both; in truth he’d had moments equally as sharp with each of them himself. But it had often been easiest to be with them at different times. He’d spend a season wandering with Jaskier as the bard sought more fodder for his songs before parting ways and the other man would spend a winter at court or a fall term at Oxenfurt. He’d partner with a reluctantly grateful Yennefer to deal with a supernatural menace or earn a bounty they could split, and they’d hole up for a few nights of intimacy in turns tender and violent both, before going their separate ways a fortnight later. They were his ties to the world, simultaneously strong but fragile, and pulling him in what often felt like opposite directions.

And they’d always repelled one another like water and oil since the matter of the djinn. Now he could hear them bickering faintly inside the cottage, and it sounded almost...fond.

Geralt wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about this development, or what could have brought it about.

“Might as well go see what they’re up to, I suppose,” he said to Roach. The mare’s ears flickered.

“Did _you_ witch them? No?” he asked the horse, the corner of his mouth quirking. Roach kept her silence, but fixed him with a rolled eye.

“Come on then, let’s get you settled before they crack more than an egg or two,” Geralt said, pulling her along to the lean-to barn behind the cottage. Roach blew out a breath.

“He _would_ be very put out if she snapped all the strings on his lute.”

After tending to Roach’s needs and washing himself off briskly in a bucket of water cold from the well, Geralt stalked into the cottage, not sure what to expect. He’d travelled enough with Jaskier over the years to know that his skills at cooking, while sufficient for organizing trail rations or tending meat over a fire, might not be up to the challenge of a hearth and the sort of larder of randomly-sourced goods Yennefer might keep.

And that was just the cooking bit. The two of them cooperating? He’d have been less surprised to find a dragon seated at the rough-hewn table inside the magicked cottage’s living space.

Surprisingly, Jaskier seemed to be holding his own. There were eggs cooking in a pan set into the hearth, warming bread, and a ham being sliced. Not exactly challenging or involved fare, but Geralt _was_ hungry. Except Jaskier and Yennefer were involved in yet another animated discussion—or rather, Jaskier was animated, gesturing briskly with the knife in between slicing the ham, while Yennefer perched in a chair, her feet propped on a basket, smiling thinly and shaking her head.

“That’s not fair, Yennefer,” Jaskier was saying, punctuating the declaration by stabbing the knife point-first down into the wooden cutting board, his eyes wide and wary.

“Whoever said anything about this being _fair_ , hmm? You owe me a favor, after all this. I’m calling it in.” Her smile was like the blade of a knife - shining and sharp.

“Besides, Jaskier, you know me. I’ve never played fair in my life.”

“You...you would have done it anyway,” Jaskier protested feebly. Yennefer shrugged, slender shoulders rolling carelessly.

“Maybe, but you came to me and you asked. Now, mind the eggs. I’m going to get cleaned up. I smell of...stable,” she said, nose wrinkling. She stalked past Geralt out of the kitchen, glancing his way as if sizing him up and nodding to herself appreciatively, her fingers trailing over his arm as she stalked off into one of the rooms further in the house that shouldn’t exist, but because of magic somehow fit within its tiny footprint. Jaskier grumbled and stirred the eggs with a frown.

“What have you gotten yourself into now?” Geralt sighed. “If she needs something for tending Roach, it should be my responsibility anyway. What is she asking for?”

“Ah, well, conveniently for you, it’s not a task you can do for me,” Jaskier said, shaking his head. Geralt lifted an eyebrow in question. Jaskier grimaced.

“I’m to tell you that while I am very fond of Roach and want the best for her horsey hide, that I went and begged Yennefer to help her because I am very...fond...of you. And I couldn’t imagine how bothered you’d be if something stupidly awful happened to the horse while you were gone,” Jaskier said rapidly.

“Hmmm.” It was all Geralt managed for a long moment, brow furrowed, as he glanced back the way Yennefer had gone. That’s what she had asked Jaskier to do? He was suspicious, but he supposed he could be generous in this, at least.

“Thank you, Jaskier. I thanked Yennefer for helping her, but you’re the one who got her in the first place,” Geralt said, low and sincere.

“You’re very fond of the horse,” Jaskier observed almost grimly. Geralt frowned.

“Roach is a good horse. And she’s my only companion, most of the time,” he said, a little defensively.

“I’m saying, Geralt, that as fond as you are of the horse, Yennefer said those years ago when you dragged me to her during all that djinn mess that you were...very worried about me. We’ve never really talked about it. But Yennefer and I talked about it. Last night. With Roach,” Jaskier clarified.

Geralt began to think his initial wariness had been the right response.

“And really, the conclusion that we both came to, mutually, you understand, is that you need us. Both of us. So, we’ve decided to antagonize one another...slightly less. In respect to that realization,” Jaskier continued, turning away to pull the bread away from the fire, cursing softly and shaking out his hand at the temperature. Geralt snorted.

“I won’t gainsay the notion of the two of you not fighting every time you meet, but I’m not sure this needed a proclamation,” he said, the corner of his mouth drawing up in a small, wry smile. “Just try not to be at each other’s throats going forward.”

“I wasn’t finished,” Jaskier said quietly. Geralt sighed and looked at him expectantly, eyebrows raised in silent question.

“Yennefer said she’s only willing to agree to this if you would admit that you care about us as much as the horse.”

A pointed, sharp cough echoed from somewhere within the unnaturally vast home. Jaskier hissed with annoyance.

“Yennefer, this is HARD, stop that! Anyway, and that we... I mean I... we both care about you. By caring for the horse, this time, and oh, fuck, the eggs are burning,” Jaskier cursed and turned to tend the food with a growl of annoyance.

“He loves you,” Yennefer added helpfully as she stalked back into the kitchen, shoving a pair of tongs at Jaskier to pull the pan from the fire, and nodding Geralt toward a seat at the sturdy table. She’d changed into a freshly elegant dress, her hair damp and coiled neatly on her head.

“And you love him,” she continued. “And I’m passing fond of you and learning to tolerate him. Despite my better judgment.”

“Yennefer!” Jaskier snapped, pointing a spoon at her accusingly.

“The point is, it’s not about the horse. Not just about the horse. You need us, the both of us. And what we need. Well. We’ll need you not to do anything particularly stupid, or get killed. Now sit down and eat breakfast.”

Geralt didn’t move from where he stood, his gaze bouncing between the both of them—Yennefer sitting in the kitchen chair with the sort of elegance better befitting a royal throne, and Jaskier looking flushed and indignant, wooden spoon in hand.

“I hate you,” Jaskier said evenly, narrowing his eyes at Yennefer. She tutted, shaking her head with mock sadness.

“This will never work if you start that again-”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it damn well, you, you viper!” Jaskier seethed. “Breakfast normally comes well after this part, I’m all turned around thanks to your meddling.” Yennefer’s laughter was somewhat less mocking than usual; she actually sounded a little delighted at this rejoinder.

“Like you stick around for breakfast afterwards,” she sneered, her tone very nearly affectionate.

“I generally aim to please throughout the full Jaskier experience,” the bard responded airly. “It’s a point of pride, in fact.”

Geralt began to wonder if there had, in fact, been swamp creatures. Something with powerful hallucinogenic properties to their skin or saliva, perhaps. In reality he’d fought them nobly and well, but now he was drugged and dying in a swamp, surely. It was the only reasonable explanation for the volley of impenetrable conversation bouncing back in forth in this tiny cottage kitchen.

“What the fuck is going on?” Geralt grated out.

“Breakfast,” Yennefer replied helpfully, giving Jaskier a significant look.

“A confession of feelings lacking appropriate style, given circumstances, but here we are,” Jaskier said with a reluctant sigh.

“Hmm,” was all that Geralt could manage, a half-hearted muttered growl, as he glanced toward the door. The thinnest of threads--the knowledge that Roach’s hooves were freshly-healed and the poor horse deserved a bit of proper rest--kept him in place, though he longed desperately for escape. Between Yennefer’s careful smile and Jaskier’s knowing sort of prattling he was very much on edge and starting to feel a little like a wolf in a trap.

“Geralt,” Yennefer interrupted again, her voice low and soothing. “Sit down, please. There’s only so much of your discomfited expression that brings me pleasure, and it’s starting to turn a bit much between the both of you looking so forlorn.”

“Enough of your teasing, Yennefer, this isn’t a game.”

“Isn’t it? Isn’t it all, really? Fine, fine, fine.” Yennefer slapped the table with her palm to punctuate her pronouncement, silencing the beginning of Geralt’s growled objection. “Will you sit down? I’m hungry, Geralt. Let the man feed us the eggs and toast he owes me and we can revisit this conversation on a full stomach,” she declared, crooking a finger at Jaskier imperiously.

It was a strange meal, eaten under a cloud of awkwardness. The food itself was nothing particularly remarkable, though it was edible enough. The eggs were only a little burnt around the edges due to Jaskier’s distraction, but dressed with salt and a bit of some green and savory herb and they had a pleasing enough flavor. There was toasted bread, slices from a ham joint, apple butter, and tea that tasted of mint and honey. Geralt ate in silence, soaking up the kitchen’s warmth and enjoying the food for what it was. Jaskier and Yennefer, on the other hand, their earlier ire at one another apparently already forgotten, prattled on about topics of little consequence and no connection. Idle-sounding inquiries by Jaskier about the local village’s market were followed by morsels of Redanian court gossip traded with very nearly conspiratorial grins. Geralt very nearly choked on his food when Yennefer let out a laugh, unfettered and loud, at some sly comment of Jaskier’s. When they turned to look at him in perfect tandem, concerned, he coughed pointedly to cover his reaction.

“Just a bit of gristle,” he muttered.

“Mmm, the ham is a bit on the fatty side. But not terrible. Took it in trade for a batch of medicine for the farmer who tends the fields behind us. It was cheap in the trade for it, but it’s not good to drive bargains too hard with the neighbors, I suppose,” Yennefer said casually, pushing her empty plate away from the edge of the table with a sigh. Within a few moments, both Jaskier and Geralt did the same, settling back in their chairs - Jaskier with sudden determination, and Geralt not a little warily. Yennefer cradled her teacup in her hand, peering over its edge with her mouth parted in an almost playful smile.

“As entertaining as this all is, I am looking forward to a proper rest in my enormous bed, and so I will make an attempt to cut a more direct path between the bard’s propensity for wordplay and your taciturn grunts, Geralt. As I suppose you gathered, we have decided to put our differences behind us, for the most part. Enjoyable as it could often be, the world is vast and full of targets for sharpening my wits besides Jaskier.”

“How very generous of you, Yennefer. What’s in it for you?” Geralt asked. Yennefer sipped her tea and hitched one of her shoulders briefly in a shrug.

“Color me curious to see if you’ll admit what’s between you with my, shall we say, blessing, for whatever it’s worth.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Geralt said curtly, lips drawn into a frown. Yennefer rolled her eyes.

“That shit stinks worse than the floor of Roach’s stall, Geralt. I’ve been tweaking your nose about it since fucking Rinde, and despite every other clever response you had that night, you always dodged the one about what Jaskier is to you,” she replied. “First I only said it to get your goat, I won’t even lie, but the entirety of the Continent is passing familiar with your relationship through the medium of song, now, after all. If you really think this playing stupid thing will continue to work, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.” Jaskier huffed as if in indignant defense of Geralt’s intelligence, and Geralt felt, for a moment, oddly touched.

“You’re one to talk, Yennefer. The two of you have been fucking for years, here and there, now and again, and can I get either one of you to use words to describe what’s between you? Is “relationship” even approaching within leagues of appropriate for “two stunning physical specimens who trade verbal barbs between athletic, impressive bouts of marathon sex and occasionally cast Significant Looks in public”? Hmm? I say, it isn’t. Not even close. Everything in my songs has to be a fucking euphemism for emotional and interpersonal turmoil these days when it comes to the two of you. You are exhausting my propensity for lyrical metaphor, Yennefer of Vengerberg!” Jaskier snapped, punctuating her name with his forefinger.

Geralt snickered at the momentary wide-eyed look of surprise on Yennefer’s face at Jaskier’s outburst. But he was hardly finished. 

“Oh-hohoho, no, don’t you start, Geralt, you are just as guilty. Hells, you are far more guilty of this. Yennefer is enigmatic with the occasional witty repartee to shade some details in the sketch, but you, on the other hand leave an artist to wander in a snowy, empty wasteland and perish in the vastness of your proverbial blank canvas.” Jaskier was warming to his subject now, extending the metaphor in all directions, but Yennefer punctured his diatribe with a snort.

“And you love it. You love the room to create to your heart’s content, and you’ve taken it all and then some. You’ve created an image of him for the world that’s a little truth and a lot of creation, and taken all the credit for it,” Yennefer said.

“It’s deserved,” Geralt said roughly. “I. Hmm. Well. The songs have made their mark in a way that I never could before,” Geralt admitted. Jaskier’s smile was soft, creasing around his eyes just a little.

“That’s very kind of you to say, Geralt.” Geralt glanced from Jaskier to Yennefer, who was watching them both expectantly, still cradling her cooling teacup.

“Jaskier is important to me. As are you. There is no one else in this world who would have cared for Roach the way I would have, not without wanting something in return, at best. The only two people I can imagine doing what you did are here, at this table. It is a comfort to know that you both are part of my life, strange and damned as it is,” he said softly. At Yennefer’s crooked smile, he sighed. “I don’t know what else you want from me, Yen.”

“No, no, that was good,” she said lightly, her violet eyes nearly glowing with merriment. “Anyway, Jaskier thinks I’m a “stunning physical specimen”, don’t you, my dear?” she purred.

“You are, and you of course know it, and don’t deflect,” Jaskier replied briskly. “You also like knowing that I’m traveling with him, some of the time, don’t you? Not because you like to share, or because you particularly like me, not yet, but even though you couldn’t bear to galavant across the wilderness like he does, you are pleased every time we cross paths with your own. Your eyes light up a little, not unlike they are now, when you see him, and you’ll make your excuses to put your own magey work aside to see what Geralt’s up to. You’re more than _passing fond_ , Yennefer,” he drawled.

“You’re loyal. For all your faults and flaws, the both of you, and you have many, you’re loyal to one another. You can’t even name it friendship, let alone anything more, and you both drive the other mad, but you’re loyal nonetheless. That’s not a common thing in this world,” Yennefer said, her voice soft, barely above a whisper. “I never had it from anyone else, and I turned my back on the world I was expected to give it to without any in return. But you have it, it’s impossible to miss.”

“It’s nothing so noble,” Geralt objected, even as Jaskier shook his head in similar denial. Yennefer snorted.

“You’re not inseparable, no more than I am from Geralt. I know. And you’ll hurt him and he’ll drive you mad, and you’ll part ways with each other cross or even angry half the time, perhaps tomorrow and then again next autumn. Forever and always. But it’s different than anything I’ve ever had,” she said. Carefully, deliberately, Yennefer placed her teacup down on the table and stood.

“The least you could do is be honest with one another,” she said finally, clearing the table and leaving it spotless with a wave of her hand. Geralt’s brow furrowed at Yennefer’s suddenly closed expression as she stepped around the table, only pausing as Jaskier began to speak.

“She’s not wrong, Geralt. You’re my friend, you know. It should be easy to say that, but I hardly ever do. You’re my subject, a once-in-a-lifetime inspiration when I talk to other bards or lecture the students at Oxenfurt.” He smiled faintly, shaking his head. 

“You’re my traveling companion and comrade in arms when I sing in the tavern. But I don’t often call you friend, and I should,” Jaskier continued, looking a little pained, but entirely earnest. “I’ve been...I don’t know. I don’t know why I haven’t, but I ought to, you know.”

“You might not say it, but your admission hasn’t ever been the problem, Jaskier,” Yennefer said, stepping close to his chair and tipping his head up with her fingers under his chin. He looked startled, but caught still in her gaze, and Geralt’s breath caught simultaneously in his throat. Slowly, deliberately, Yennefer bent to press a soft kiss against Jaskier’s mouth. It wasn’t a particularly deep kiss, but Geralt had the sudden nearly-strangling feeling that it was as much for him as it was for Jaskier. Yen pulled away from Jaskier’s face a few inches and turned to smile at Geralt, her touch on Jaskier’s jaw loosening just enough so that he could turn his head as well. No, not _as much_ for him as for Jaskier. More. Definitely more. Catching Jaskier’s gaze, somewhere between torn open and stunned even as his eyes sought Geralt’s directly, quickened the thrum of Geralt’s pulse.

“I think,” Yennefer said deliberately, “that ‘friend’ is true, but also insufficiently accurate.” Her fingernails scraped lightly over the stubble bristling on Jaskier’s chin, and she patted his cheek.

“It’s true,” Geralt said. “Friend has meaning and weight. But it’s not the whole of it.” The look of hungry longing that passed over Jaskier’s face stuttered the heartbeat that had begun to pick up its pace.

“That was not so hard, I think. Now, for bed,” Yennefer declared, patting Jaskier’s shoulder.

“What?” Jaskier said, brow furrowing with dazed confusion.

“What?” Geralt asked, glancing between them warily.

“To sleep,” Yennefer clarified helpfully, her lips stretching into an ever-so-slightly mocking smile.

Both of the men stared at her in wordlessly stunned silence.

“I haven’t slept properly in days, between work and the horse emergency. You,” she said, pointing to Geralt, “have been tramping through swampland for days. And you,” she added, patting Jaskier’s shoulder again, “have been running all over the countryside to drag me to a horse’s bedside. We’re not doing this exhausted, not again. I want to appreciate things properly. Geralt, bed. Change clothes first, please. Jaskier, change clothes and wash up, you smell like horse _and_ ham,” she sniffed, wrinkling her nose. She trailed her fingertips over Geralt’s shoulder and swept from the room with a satisfied smile.

“Hmm,” Geralt muttered as Jaskier sniffed his clothing surreptitiously. He stood up from the table heavily, moving carefully as he leaned in toward Jaskier, meeting his gaze deliberately with a frank expression and a quirked eyebrow.

“You do. Smell of ham. And the hearth fire,” he said mildly, before pressing his lips gently to Jaskier’s own in a careful kiss, tasting honey from his tea, and catching the lingering scent of Yennefer’s perfume. Jaskier returned the kiss almost tentatively, but then with more assurance and a muffled whine for a long moment before sitting back in his chair, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat.

“Wash up and come to bed. You heard the lady,” Geralt rumbled, before heading out of the kitchen. As he stepped into the corridor—the one that shouldn’t exist in a house so small, but stretched on at some length—he smiled as he heard Jaskier finally exhale on a curse.

“Oh, fuck me.”

* * *

For all her teasing and taunting of Geralt’s restless nights, Yennefer herself rarely slept well. In her childhood, to sleep too deeply left her vulnerable to abuse or ridicule, and so she learned to sleep lightly and in snatches grabbed where she could. In Aretuza she had not slept deeply as she learned to master her powers, and once she had them well in hand she’d preferred the work to boring rest. And ever since it had seemed wise, even when she could lay the strongest wards to guard her sleep, never to take full advantage, lest she be taken advantage of.

And so waking after a long, refreshing nap, with the heavy golden light of afternoon edging the thick brocade curtains of her bedchamber, was an unusual experience. So too, was the presence of the softly-snoring witcher, still sleeping deeply with stray strands of his white hair tickling her cheek, and even more so was the presence of the drooling, snuffling bard on his other side, faceplanted into one of her better pillows. Charming, really, the both of them.

It wasn’t as if she’d never had other bodies in her bed--in all numbers and configurations, at all times of day or night—but never to sleep, as she just had. Occasionally a sated doze might come after a particularly exhausting round of sex, but the notion of sharing sleep - intimate and with all attendant risks - would never have occurred to her. She’d have conjured a portal and pushed a sleeping bedmate through it first.

And yet, here they were, the pair of them, sleeping like babies in her bed. (Well. They were overly-grown babies, it was true, but Yennefer was under the impression from her limited experience that babies did not actually sleep particularly restfully, so perhaps the comparison was not entirely apt.) Still. Jaskier was curled into Geralt’s shoulder, arm entwined with the witcher’s own, and Geralt had turned his head in his sleep so that he was snoring directly into the crown of the other man’s head. They were sort of adorable, really. Yennefer propped her chin on her forearm, stretching slowly and watching them with half-lidded eyes.

They were pleasing to look at, she admitted to herself. Geralt was a fine specimen of masculinity, his appeal only heightened by the feral edge of his witcher mutations to her way of thinking. And Jaskier, while he was neither unusually beautiful nor possessed of any magical aura that drew in the observer, was disarmingly charming. Or, sometimes he was charming in a way that made one reach for weapons out of wariness—armingly charming, perhaps? Yennefer smiled, closing her eyes to doze a little more. They were good together, in any case. The things that tied them together made for a pleasing picture. She had little interest in watching the relationships of others after so many years of opportunity. She’d conjured scenes of debauchery and orgy with application of her magic, but it always left her cold, an empty performance. She sighed softly and pressed her cheek against the sheets, frowning at the notion of watching intimacy unfold before her again, however real it might be this time.

“I can hear you thinking,” Geralt’s voice rumbled softly, turning his head in her direction though he didn’t open his eyes. On his other side, Jaskier’s brow furrowed and he snorted, still very much asleep, nose burrowed beneath the other man’s shoulder.

“Only because your own head is empty of thoughts,” she whispered back sharply, suddenly prickling with an unsettled feeling. She hated second thoughts.

“Hmmm.” Geralt’s brow furrowed slightly. Yennefer pursed her lips. The silence stretched between them for a long moment, not uncomfortable despite the harsh rejoinder. It was ever their way, after all.

“Yes,” Geralt finally said quietly. “It is. It’s nice. I always find peace when I rest with you.” The furrow in his brow eased and his eyes slit open, gold shimmering in the dim room.

“And I haven’t even tired you out yet,” she murmured.

“You did,” he replied.

“Ah, yes. I made you talk. To your friend.”

“Mmm.”

“Your more-than-a friend,” Yennefer continued, sliding across the sheets to press her body against Geralt’s side.

“What does that make you?” Geralt asked quietly, slipping his arm around her shoulder as she laid her hand on his stomach and propped her chin on his chest with a crooked smile.

“I don’t know that “friends” has ever worked for us,” she whispered.

“My more-than-a friend,” he echoed. “I have two.”

“I suppose it’s possible to have more than one,” she said, leaning up to kiss him gently, humming with pleasure as she coaxed him into deepening the kiss with tongue and teeth. She slid her hand from Geralt’s stomach, fingertips running over the lines of scars, to slip beneath Jaskier’s loose shirt, her fingernails lightly scratching over his ribs. He woke with a convulsive snort followed by a gasp.

“Oh gods.”

“No gods here,” Geralt muttered against her mouth.

“Fuck me,” Jaskier whispered breathlessly. Yennefer bit at Geralt’s lip until he cursed.

“If you like,” Yennefer said, flicking her gaze to Jaskier’s stunned expression with a coy smile.

“Not. No. Um. Not what I meant. Should I be here for this? Should I go? Is there an expectation that I go make dinner?” Jaskier said, his voice increasing slightly in pitch with each question in succession.

Geralt grunted, broke away from the kiss with Yennefer, and turned to kiss Jaskier firmly, cupping the back of his head tenderly with his hand while Yennefer watched, idly scratching at Jaskier’s ribs with her fingernails just to see him squirm and gasp. He was very responsive to her touch. This seemed extremely promising; she was getting ideas. When he returned Geralt’s kiss hungrily, clutching at the other man’s shoulders with both hands, her smile widened.

“Very pretty,” she said with approval, sitting up and letting the sheet fall from around her body. Yennefer combed her hair back from her face with both hands, back arching as she stretched. Their kiss suddenly forgotten, both men looked up at her with naked admiration and she laughed, delighted.

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” she said, firmly pushing Geralt’s shoulder so that he turned back into Jaskier.

“Go on. Make sure he understands that he’s welcome,” she said softly, propping her elbow on her pillow to watch, running her hand over Geralt’s back, now, her smile verging on the predatory as Geralt and Jaskier returned to kissing, still by turns hesitant and hungry with one another.

“You’ve both been wanting this a long time, I know. Isn’t that right, Jaskier?” she said softly, winding her fingers in Geralt’s hair.

“Yes,” Jaskier panted, still looking a little lost.

“How long, exactly, has it been since you’ve wanted Geralt to kiss you, hmm?” Yennefer tugged gently on the locks of hair wound between her fingers, making Geralt curse, and stretching his head back so that Jaskier could apply his mouth to the other man’s throat.

“Since the first time I saw him, I think,” Jaskier said, a disbelieving, breathless laugh punctuating the admission.

“Mm, somehow I thought that might be the case. He is so terribly pretty. Distracting, really,” she hummed, even as Geralt growled. She tightened her grip, bending to kiss his forehead as he narrowed his eyes at her, unable to look down as Jaskier’s mouth continued to wander over Geralt’s neck and collarbones.

“But I should tell you, Jaskier. The White Wolf is a lot more tame than he lets on,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “You just have to know how to pet him. You’ll help me, yes?” Jaskier paused in his exploration, raising his head and propping his chin on his hand to quirk an eyebrow at her.

“Is this a trick question?” he said warily.

“No, no,” she said, letting go of Geralt’s hair and combing her fingers through it gently, laughing as Geralt turned to wrap his arm around her once more and pull her into his chest with an uncommonly soft expression.

“But you can teach an old wolf new tricks, trust me,” she added.

“And what about mages?” Geralt growled softly. “All parlor tricks and sleight of hand, is it?”

“Geralt, what an insult to offer the lady,” Jaskier said with mock indignation, pushing his hair back from his forehead with one hand, eyes sparkling. He seemed to be warming to the situation now, given a few moments to be awake. “I’m sure she’s very talented with her hands, no mere tricks here,” he insisted with a wink.

“Oh, he knows,” Yennefer said fondly, bracing her hands on Geralt’s chest to push herself up within his embrace. Slowly, she leaned in toward Geralt, only to brush her lips in the lightest of touches against his own before turning her head to draw Jaskier into a heated kiss instead, just a few inches from Geralt’s face. Geralt inhaled sharply, his chest expanding beneath her hands even as she coaxed the bard (who whined a little in the back of his throat—and she’d thought Geralt was the canine, here) into a showy kiss for their very intimate audience of one.

“You, on the other hand, are just doing that empty flattery endemic to your breed, I think,” Yennefer purred when Jaskier was finally forced to pull away to breathe—a considerable length of time, given his vocal training. “Time for a practical illustration.” Crawling over Geralt’s body with ease, she pressed Jaskier down into the bed as both of the men groaned in tandem.

“Oh, come on, now, we’ve barely gotten started,” Yennefer chuckled. “I expect all that lute playing has been good for something, bard. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

She’d feared his habit of kissing and telling was more about the telling than anything memorable about the kissing; a way to brag on his prowess and insert innuendo wherever and whenever he might. Jaskier would talk up wooing a countess or bedding a barmaid with the same utter lack of self-awareness and self-preservation, and despite every threat and provocation she’d offered him over the years, he’d still eyed her with a charming mixture of lust and fear now and again. It didn’t speak entirely well of his common sense, but at least the man did seem to know what he was about, she thought, as his hands settled firmly on her hips. 

Yennefer hauled him up into a sitting position by way of both of her fists clenched in his loose shirt and pushed him back into the bed’s ornate headboard. Jaskier both produced a pleasing little grunt at the impact while not failing to continue moving one his hands from her hips up over her waist to skim his fingertips lightly over her ribs to cup her breast. She hissed a little at the contact and his dazed smile turned half-crooked, though he was uncharacteristically silent in response to her goading. Geralt watched them both, apparently spellbound, his chest hitching occasionally with the sudden need to breathe. 

“If I’d known this was all I needed to do to get you to shut up, I might have tried it years ago,” Yennefer laughed, pressing into Jaskier’s hands and bending for another lingering kiss, swallowing his indignant noise of protest. She bit at his lower lip and pulled away as he cursed.

“But I suppose it was more fun, the dice falling out this way,” she mused, scratching her nails through the hair on his chest sharply enough to make him shudder.

“Fun,” Jaskier grunted. “This is fun, yes. The last time you got this up close and personal with me it involved a knife pressed against my cock, let us recall.” Geralt’s brow furrowed and he looked at her askance—he wasn’t exactly surprised, but still. Yennefer tutted and circled her hips in Jaskier’s lap as his breath caught.

“Lest all the varied women of the Continent had lost their turn with _this_ , we can all be grateful that I didn’t follow through, I suppose,” she said airily.

“Might’ve saved him some trouble,” Geralt rumbled, humor glinting in his golden eyes. Still, he softened the blow of his words by sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Jaskier against the headboard of the bed and pulling the other man sideways into a kiss that was somewhat gentler than anything Yennefer had offered him. She let them go on for a bit, getting a sense for the bard’s ability to multitask (he’d not taken his hands off her body, which spoke well of his skills) before slipping her hand inside Jaskier’s loose breeches and wrapping it around his hardening cock.

“Still all fine and well down here, I see,” she said even as Jaskier broke away from the kiss with a throaty groan and a desperate sort of look as he rocked up into her touch.

“No thanks to you, but I’m a generous man,” he said, voice tight with strain as he dropped his hand from her breast to between her legs. She rewarded his efforts, deliberate and slow, his fingertips exploring her carefully, with a low moan. Geralt watched them both, pale lips reddened from kisses and a flush just creeping over the rest of his face.

“Oh, very,” Yennefer agreed, pulling Jaskier’s cock from his pants and settling on it with a roll of her hips.

“Fuck,” Geralt breathed, his expression open and not a little stunned.

“Yes, that,” she replied, bending to kiss Jaskier again, humming as he broke it off after a moment to press his mouth to her collarbone.

“Very sexy,” he muttered against her skin. “I said as much just after we met. Even after the knife thing.” Jaskier slanted his eyes sideways. “Isn’t that so, Geralt?”

“It’s true,” Geralt confirmed, fingertips tracing her spine as she sighed and arched into his touch, hips rising and falling. “And also very mad, if I recall.” Yennefer grinned, amused by Jaskier’s present recovery from her ministrations and his long-ago cheek.

“Not wrong, though,” she laughed. Jaskier’s fingers had slipped from between her legs, but Geralt’s replaced them, stroking her as he watched them both intently. Jaskier braced against the mattress, meeting her rocking motion even with a decided lack of leverage and a slightly wide-eyed look. She’d intended on a show for Geralt, to fluster him and tweak his steady restraint, but he was a wolf on a very fragile leash, his touch pushing her arousal even higher, and she was already close, and Jaskier not far behind. It was all quick and almost frantic, despite the teasing words.

“Come on then,” she said, bending close to breathe the words into Jaskier’s ear, even as his gaze flicked from her to Geralt rapidly, her orgasm building warm and sharp in her belly. “We can’t let him feel left out,” she added, before turning and pulling Geralt into a hungry kiss. Jaskier swore breathlessly, bucking up into her as she pressed her hips forward into Geralt’s touch, groaning from her belly. Yennefer hummed, eyes half-lidded, and pulled away again to lean down to whisper to Jaskier again, a little louder this time over the rasp of both men's heaving breaths.

“Very good. Now it’s his turn, yes?” Laughing breathlessly, they turned to look to Geralt together, and Yennefer found his open look of desperate want to be the most satisfying thing she’d ever seen, aside from Jaskier’s pleased and slightly predatory grin.

"Fuck," Geralt said quietly, voice raw with emotion.

"I think that's the idea, yes," Jaskier replied, as Yennefer slid from his lap and they both pressed Geralt back into the bedsheets.


End file.
